


My Bitter Hands

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Break up sex, Drunk Dean, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Break Up, Requited Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-30
Updated: 2008-01-30
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years together, one month apart.  Happy birthday, Dean. (set four years after Just Before Dawn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Bitter Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mona1347](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/gifts).



"Are you still at the same place?"

Dean mumbles something that sounds like an affirmative and Sam grits his teeth, jams the key into the Impala and turns it. A _Clerks_ -like refrain of _I'm not even supposed to **be** here_ goes through Sam's head but he tamps it down. The engine hiccups and squalls and for a moment, Sam's afraid she won't start. It's startling, as is the condition of the Impala, awash in clothes and weapons and fast food in varying states of decay. It stinks and so does Dean, crumpled small in the passenger seat.

 _I'm not going to worry about this,_ Sam thinks as the Impala's engine catches and roars, sounding unhappy as he is. _This isn't my problem. I'm not going to worry about this._

He throws the Impala in gear and pulls out of the lot with a lurch and a scrape of metal over asphalt.

It was Mike, the bartender, who had called him.

_Hey. Mike, what's up?_

_I think you should come down here and look in on your brother, man._

_Dean? Aw, man, Dean's a grown up. He can handle his business._

_No, seriously, Sam. You should come down here and look in on your brother._

On the drive over to Dean's place, Sam contemplates the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles, tongues his split, bloody lip. He thinks one of his teeth is loose.

_Thanks, Dean._

Of course, Dean looks much worse. Jesus, so much worse. God only knows how long he'd been brawling before Sam got there and amid the fresh hurts, there's the spoor of other, older fights. Sam's trying not to think about it too much, trying to stop the background grumble of _your fault, this is your fault_ washing up from his tight, knotted stomach.

Dean lives only a couple minutes from the bar. It's typical Dean that he'd drive the distance rather than walk, but Sam's grateful for it because just bullying Dean up the steep and elderly stairs is almost more than he can manage. Besides being beat to hell and gone, Dean's completely shitfaced, limp and clinging. Sam guesses he should be grateful that all the fight seemed to go out of Dean with that one crack across Sam's jaw.

At the top of the stairs Sam pushes Dean into the wall and holds him there with his shoulder and hip while he digs in his jeans for his key ring.

He shouldn't have kept the key, Sam knows that. It sends a message he doesn't want and—however obtuse Dean can be about…well, just about everything else—when it comes to this booby-trapped minefield between them, Dean's razor sharp. But he worries about fishing in Dean's jeans for _his_ keys a lot more, especially as Dean tries to slip his fingers under the hem of Sam's jacket and shirt. Sam bats Dean's fingers away irritably.

"Why are you even here?" Dean mutters, gritty and raw voiced.

Sam swings the apartment door wide and wraps his arm around his brother despite Dean's half-hearted struggles. "Fuck. I don't even know."

Of course Dean hasn't moved out. Of course he's still living in this stupid apartment. Sam doesn't know why he bothered to ask. It aches and annoys Sam at the same time. When he's in his shitty little studio, he thinks about this apartment—their apartment—on far more days than he likes to admit to, despite everything.

 _Home_.

Annoyed, he wrenches Dean a little harder than he means to. Dean's nowhere near steady on his feet and the two of them crash together, stumbling over the threshold. Sam puts his hand out for the wall…and keeps falling. His flailing hand scrapes across God only knows what until he's brought up short by the drywall gouging into his bicep and pit. Dean thuds into Sam's chest and starts sliding; it's instinct for Sam to grab onto him, hold them together.

It's so familiar. The familiarity with which their bodies fit together jags somewhere inside Sam like a knife blade glancing off a rib. The feeling of breathlessness, of startlement blooming into crippling pain is the same.

There's a hole in the wall. Sam can see it in his periphery as he drags them both upright; nearly big as his chest is broad and the edges ugly as a wound.

He looks out into the main room of the apartment for the first time and sees all the furniture—all the furniture that they bought and picked out together—is gone, the bare boards shining in the yellow-white of the streetlight. The shock lasts long enough for Dean to turn his face into Sam's neck. The soft, wet brush of Dean's mouth across Sam's carotid is…electric, brutal, searing through Sam's brain and obliterating everything except the heated fall of blood from his torso into his cock.

"Y'came back t'me, Sammy," Dean mumbles, indistinct. His fingers crawl under Sam's shirt to slide up Sam's stomach, searching out his nipples.

_No. No._

Sam shoves Dean back a step harshly, holding him at arm's length. His fingers are so tight in Dean's coat that the leather squeaks and with difficultly, he loosens his grip, elbows still locked. It's an effort to do that, to keep Dean away. It's not what he wants.

 _It **is** what you want,_ he reminds himself doggedly. _He's your brother. Just…your brother._

Four years together. One month apart.

Somehow it seems like it should be the other way around.

"Let's get you to bed," Sam whispers through a throat and lips dry as desert sands.

Dean reaches out and trails his fingers down the length of Sam's face. It's not sexual, not like he's pressing Sam for more than he's willing to give. It feels more like the touch of a blind man, verifying a doubted reality.

"Come on," Sam says again, and tugs.

As he tows Dean deeper into the apartment, Sam sees the furniture isn't gone after all. It's all been destroyed, bits of shattered wood and torn upholstery, stuffing scattered like tumbleweeds. Other holes have been punched or kicked or gouged into the plaster, bleeding dust across the hardwood.

Sam feels similarly…damaged.

The bedroom is barely large enough to fit just the bed.

_What else do we need in there?_

_Dean. You have a one track mind._

_Yeah, the desire not to wake up underneath you._

_I thought you liked being underneath me._

_Got that the wrong way, jerkass_

In sharp contrast to the apocalypse of the living room, the bedroom is exactly as Sam remembers it.

_Exactly as you left it._

Only one side of the California King even looks slept on, the pillows dented and flat.

He dumps Dean on the rumpled mattress with more savagery than he intends. Dean makes a stifled, sickened noise and slides right off the edge, sinking to his knees with a crash like thunder. Sam winces and tries to step out of the way, but Dean's fingers lock onto the denim at Sam's thigh, his waistband.

"Dean—"

Sam's cock, rebellious traitor, is hard and there's no way Dean can miss that, even blotto.

_My brother. I don't want my brother. I don't._

He doesn't move when Dean's hand grits up his thigh, touches the trapped and aching tip of his cock. Dean tips his head back. His hair is long, longer than Sam's ever seen it, and greasy. He smells horrible, like he's been sleeping in gutters and dumpsters and his face is a bloody ruin.

Sam wants him. Sam's always wanted him.

Sam can't _do_ this.

A trick of the street light illuminates Dean's face. A blood vessel is broken in his left eye, the white stained almost all the way to the lid. His lip has re-split and blood wells in the gap, a slow teardrop onto his chin. "Don't." Dean's voice wavers unevenly though his hand is steady as death, stroking up and down along Sam's length. "I… Don't say no, Sam. Don't. Not tonight." Dean's eyes are so bright, liquid, lunatic, pleading. "Don't."

Sam drives his fingers into Dean's hair, making it pull, making it hurt. He wants to hurt Dean. For being his brother. For being _Dean_ , tangled around him and through him, part of him no matter what he does. Dean, who he hates.

Dean, who he loves.

Dean makes a thick purring sound, closing his eyes, tilting his head into it even as he works Sam's button out of the eye, tugs his zipper down.

Sam knows he's going to do this. And he's going to tell himself he's doing it for Dean. Because _Dean_ needs this. Because today—tonight—is what it is.

But it's a lie.

It's all lies now.

"Happy birthday, Dean," Sam whispers as he guides his brother's bloody mouth onto his cock.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta duties by shotofjack, with my thanks.


End file.
